The Church Bells Rang
by SnazzinessRules
Summary: Alternative 4.10 onwards: Harry is shot and the prognosis is not good. The woman he has always needed will now be needed more than ever.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: we don't own Spooks (we also aren't the writers of Spooks and don't write _the_ Spooks canon!)  
**

**Finally, this is not the same as _The Notebook_, and won't turn out to be; the three of us have spoken to make sure that, really, the only over lap is the central shooting theme.**

**The title is from _Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) _and the plot is AU 4.10.**

**For Lynn x**

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"Angela Wells is beyond any code now," Harry stated, grimly.

"There is still a way we could help her."

He looked across at Adam. "What do you mean?"

"Kill her."

The street was busy as the sleek, black, car pulled up to the building. It had barely come to a standstill before Adam bundled himself out of the door and stepped onto the road.

"I want the anti-terrorist committee to declare special powers," Harry ordered, speaking into the phone which was firmly attached to his ear as he slid out of the car and stood on the pavement outside Thames House. Adam was right; Angela Wells needed dealing with and they only had one option left. "I want authorisation to shoot to kill."

It was ironic, really, that the second he had uttered those words a gun shot rang out. Even above the beginnings of Big Ben's hourly chorus, there's was no mistaking the crack of the round being fired off, closely followed by the smashing of glass as the bullet found the car window. Harry turned back towards the street and scanned the buildings opposite for signs of the marksman. It was all happening so quickly that he didn't have time to think, time to act, time to do anything but search for her. He knew, without a doubt, who was behind the rifle.

There was a panic on the street around him, women screaming, men shouting and the sound of another loud crack punctuated the clock's next chime as a second shot was fired. It missed him, but not by much.

"Get him in, get him in." Adam strained to be heard above the commotion. He could see what was about to happen and try as he might he couldn't seem to get his legs to move fast enough. There was a chance the security guard could get to Harry before he could. He couldn't understand why Harry wasn't moving.

Everything seemed to have slowed down, he could hear Adam shouting instructions to someone but the words were mingled in with screams from a woman caught in the cross fire and he didn't know what he'd said. It didn't matter anyway; his sole focus was on finding Angela's hiding place. He was still scanning the rooftops when he heard Ruth shout his name. On instinct he spun around, eager to tell her to get inside, back into the safety of the building.

"Ruth, it's not safe..." Another crack tore through the air and Harry's eyes went wide with shock as the hot metal ripped through the flesh of his back. There was no time to reach out for help to stop himself falling. He had a brief second to realise that the scream of pain was his before his legs gave way and he collapsed to the pavement amidst the echo of chiming metal floating across the London sky. His blood seeped into the cracks and mingled with the dirt as he lay there helplessly, and waited for her to finish him off.

She dropped to her knees, suddenly, her legs disappearing from beneath her without warning. There was a smack, the thud of bone against marble, and she was vaguely aware of the intense bruising pain which shot through her as she made contact with the floor. She tried to stand, to run to him, but already strong arms were wrapped around her, holding her up and holding her back as she cried out from the depths of her lungs. Somewhere close to the river, the bells of Big Ben continued to chime until it reached five. She wanted to scream out at it to stop, that it was over. It didn't need to chime anymore, the damage was already done. It was intruding on her pain, a sound she could no longer bear. All she could hear was ringing and sirens and screaming, mixing together into a strange white noise which numbed every other sense. Her head felt both full and empty, and it was several moments before she realised she was the one contributing most loudly to the screaming. She tugged, hard, at the hand around her waist, clawing at dark skin and willing it to let go. A louder, more distant scream rose up above the final chime; a cry, a crack, a collective gasp. The restraining arm around her waist gave way at the passing of danger – at the passing of Angela – and she ran forward from the building, skidding, palms grazed, knees cut, to his side.

"Harry. Harry." She was panting; shock, adrenaline and choking tears holding back the words in her throat so that each was forced out in a rush of air. She knelt lower. The rise and fall of his back as he lay faced down was laboured and heavy and he struggled to keep his eyes open on his side-turned face; a small trickle of blood pooled where his temple met with solid ground. She lay herself down, too, her position mirroring his, on her front. "Harry." It seemed to be the only word she could say as she extended an arm to tentatively touch his exposed cheek.

She was aware that she was being moved again. The same hands, now scratched, skin torn, were trying to pull her to her feet. "Ruth, you have to move. The paramedics are here."

She didn't respond. She physically couldn't will herself to either move or speak, acting like a ragdoll in her owners arms. She could only watch, in horror, as they stretchered his bloodied body away towards the back of the ambulance.

"Ruth. Ruth?"

How long he had been calling her name, how long the ambulance had been departed, she didn't know, but she was suddenly aware of a soft touch on her shoulder. She turned around.

"Adam's got the car; we need to meet him at the exit of the car park."

"I'm sorry about your hand, Zaf," she sobbed, looking at the mess she'd made of it.

He turned the left corner of his mouth upwards; he knew her tears were a displacement of her tears for Harry, and not really for him, but still only Ruth could take the time to worry about a scratch when her world was collapsing around her. "Least of our worries," he whispered, "least of all yours."

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	2. Chapter 2

**We would like to point out that our medical knowledge is limited and the following chapters have been pieced together from bits on the internet, Casualty re-runs (yes, I really did watch it just for fic!) and our own imaginations. Please accept our apologies for any inaccuracies or mistakes. Having never been shot (thankfully) we can only imagine what it is like...**

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The sirens were alternately loud and then quiet as he struggled to keep his eyes open. Someone was talking to him, asking him something, but he couldn't focus on what they were saying long enough to understand. He tried to talk, to tell them he couldn't hear them properly but his voice was muffled against the oxygen mask which covered his face. He had a feeling he'd been in this situation before but everything was so hazy and distant, he couldn't seem to hold onto a thought for more than a second and it was making him agitated. He made a concerted effort and reached his hand up to the mask, pulling it away slightly, only to find that it was firmly held back in place by someone with a stronger hand.

"It's helping you breathe, Harry. It needs to stay on, ok?" explained the paramedic, before returning his attention to stemming the blood loss.

He hadn't the energy to fight, instead his hand fell away from his face and fell loosely to his side as he drifted in and out of consciousness. In his more lucid moments he knew he was in pain and that, this time, he was in a very bad way. Ruth's face had been enough to tell him that, as she had lain on the pavement with him. Oddly, it had brought him comfort, knowing she was there, by his side, when he needed someone the most. As he finally succumbed and drifted out of consciousness he wished she was beside him now.

"Where is he?" She looked around expectantly and repeated her question more loudly when her companions didn't provide an immediate explanation. "Where is he!"

"Probably in theatre, Ruth," Adam whispered.

"But I want to- I need to-" Logical thought was a distant hope, and the fact that he was undergoing an operation seemed like no good reason why she should be prevented from seeing him. "I just have to see him."

"Ruth, you need to wait. We just need to wait." She was still fidgeting, held in place only by his and Zaf's firm, reassuring grip on each wrist, held like an oversized child between two guardians. "Please."

She untensed her arms and both men relaxed their grip.

"You should get your hands and knees seen to," Zaf commented. "We'll get you in A&E."

"They're only scratches." She held out her palms, which were smeared with blood. The skin was red raw and torn in several places and she winced as she moved them.

"Ruth, they're not only scratches."

"Yes they are," she spat, determined that they couldn't make her go.

"Only scratches compared to Harry's," Adam whispered. "That's what you mean, isn't it?"

"Yes, that is what I bloody well mean." She was angry, and she wasn't going to hide it. The enormous unfairness of it was suddenly so clear and strong in her mind. "He's in there ripped open by a bullet and you're fussing about a bit of gravel in my hand, and I don't want to sit in bloody A and bloody E while he's-" The end of her sentence disappeared into yet more sobs as Zaf protectively pulled her to his chest.

"Do you know about the only thing you can do right now, Ruth?" he asked, and she shook her head against him. "Get yourself in a fit state for when they wheel him out of theatre. Get yourself patched up, calm yourself down and be ready for him."

She nodded, reluctantly, and let herself be lead down the clinical white corridor towards the sign reading A&E.

Harry wasn't awake to witness the organised chaos that ensued the moment his stretcher was wheeled into the hospital.

"What have we got?"

One of the paramedics answered the young nurse as the stretcher was pushed through the doors into the emergency room. "Male. Fifties. Gun shot wound. Undetermined spinal and head trauma. Lost consciousness at 17:21."

The nurse nodded and a young doctor started shouting orders to the assembled staff. Immediately but with as much care as possible Harry was shifted from the stretcher onto a bed, his clothes being cut and stripped off him to allow his physicians unfettered access to him.

"Get a line in, I want to stabilise his BP as much as possible."

"I'm on it," someone shouted and grappled with Harry's arm to get an IV line in.

"Page Dr Brett, we need her on this one."

"She's on her way to theatre," the senior nurse confirmed before turning her attention to Harry and seeing if she could rouse him at all. "Harry, can you hear me? I'm Nurse Coat." Undeterred by his lack of response she carried on talking. "If you can hear me you're in St Thomas' Hospital being prepared for theatre. Just hold on, ok?"

Practised hands tended to Harry, quickly and with precision. Time was of the essence and all those that were conscious in the room were fully aware that this man's life was hanging by a precarious thread.

"Take him up to theatre, we've done all we can to stabilise him."

There was a rush of footsteps as Harry was wheeled towards theatre. He was preceded only by his nurse who brought the surgeon up-to-speed as she finished scrubbing up. Patient hand-over completed, it was all in the hands of the surgeon now and only time would tell what the damage would be.

"Take a seat," the woman sighed, wearily. It was not that she was being unhelpful, but Ruth could see she had more than enough on her plate with a roomful of people with limbs facing in awkward directions and head wounds dripping blood. Her grazed hands and knees once again seemed insignificant.

"Er, maybe I shouldn't…we could be here a long time…what if he…?" she mumbled to Adam and Zaf.

"Ruth, you're staying put. Harry will take longer to see to than you will, but if you want me to, I will go and wait up by theatre while Zaf stays with you. They may not be the most dangerous injuries ever, but I can tell they're bloody sore looking and they need a proper clean."

"But…"

"Just sit, Ruth, please."

Zaf gently took her arm and lead her to the plastic seating as Adam smiled and left.

"He means well, Ruth."

"I know," she breathed. "It's just, I keep replaying it and replaying it. It's my fault, Zaf, so why do I deserve to be fussed over?"

He cocked his head, eyes full of confusion and concern.

"It is, I called his name and when he turned to me, she got him. It's my fault he got shot." She was crying again now, hot tears following old, dried tracks down her face.

"Oh Ruth." Zaf pulled her into his arms and cradled her against his chest. "It was Angela. Angela went bad, Angela lost it, Angela pulled the trigger. She was clever and more dangerous than any of us knew. Cleverer than we were. It wasn't you."

"But if I hadn't called him," she sniffed.

"The he would have been facing the other way and the bullet could still have found him, maybe in the stomach, the liver, the heart, who knows, Ruth. You can't keep saying if; it'll tear you apart."

She nodded against the material of his jacket, letting herself sink against it and take the comfort she was being offered. She felt suddenly sleepy, and shaky, as the adrenaline wore off, and found herself dozing lightly against him until she was finally called for treatment.

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	3. Chapter 3

**We don't own anything, blah, blah, blah...**

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"Any news on when I- we- can see him?" she asked Adam, the second she got back to the waiting area.

He shook his head. "It's unlikely we'll get to see him, Ruth."

She looked at him sharply, almost daring him to try and stop her from seeing Harry. "What do you mean?"

"You're not his next of kin," he said, gently, "none of us are. I've contacted Catherine. She's flying back to England as soon as possible."

She nodded, absently, whilst she wondered how best to get around the fact that she wasn't listed as his next of kin. She had to see him. She just had to and if she had to bribe every bloody official in the hospital with a £50 note to do it, then that's what she would do. "I'm going to talk to the receptionist," she muttered, striding away in the direction of the reception area before either one of her companions could stop her.

There was someone in front of her asking inane questions about MRSA and superbugs and she could feel the impatience sweeping through her body. She tapped her foot and dug her nails into the dressings that covered her palms to stop herself from shoving the woman roughly out of the way and demanding that she be allowed to see him. The seconds trickled into never ending minutes and by the time the elderly woman in front of her moved out of the way, her hurt and pain and confusion at the afternoon's events had mingled together and morphed into anger. Anger that he was lying in an operating theatre fighting for his life, anger that she wasn't his next of kin when she felt like the closest thing he had to it, but most of all her anger was for the very real possibility that he might die without ever knowing he was loved, totally and completely, by her.

"Can I help you?" The receptionist's voice startled her slightly and she was aware she'd drifted off into her thoughts.

She shook her head and stepped closer to the desk. "Yes, you can. I'd like to know when I can see Mr Pearce."

"I see, and you are?"

"Ruth Evershed."

She watched as the blond receptionist checked the computer, "I'm sorry, it's next of kin only at the-"

"At the moment, I'm the closest thing he has to next of kin," she cut in, sternly, "His daughter can't get here until much later and he shouldn't have to be alone just because of bureaucracy."

"I'm sorry Miss, I realise you're upset but there are rules for a reason."

"I want to see him!" she hissed, attempting to keep her voice down so she wouldn't get thrown out by security. "I _need_ to see him. I have to tell him...I have to tell him something," she whispered as the first of a fresh batch of hot tears spilled down her cheeks. "At least tell me how he is. Please, I'm begging you."

The middle-aged receptionist studied the woman in front of her and her heart went out to her. "I'll have a word with his doctor but I can't promise anything. Take a seat and I'll come and find you after I've spoken with the doctor."

Ruth scrubbed at her face with a bandaged hand. "I'll wait here."

The receptionist had no doubt that she wouldn't move until she was allowed to see the patient.

--

"Ms Evershed, I presume? Dr Brett, chief surgeon."

Ruth blinked twice, and then berated herself for having expected a man to have greeted her. She nodded, dumbly, in agreement that she was Ms Evershed.

"Ruth, please."

"Ok, Ruth, I understand you're enquiring about Mr Pearce's surgery and prognosis."

Ruth nodded again.

"At the moment, it's very early days. We're keeping him in the high dependency ward, and he's in his own room due to what I understand to be the circumstances." The woman was competent and confident, but there was a friendly warmth which made Ruth take to her at once.

"W-will he be, er, what…"

"There is bruising around his brain where he fell, but compared to how it could have been, it's fairly superficial. With the right input and training, his brain should be able to compensate for any lasting damage."

"Should?"

"Medicine isn't the exact science we all wish. Unfortunately, there are far too many wait-and-sees for all our liking."

"A-and," she swallowed. "His back. T-the shot. Is he p-?" She couldn't bring herself to say the word.

"Not necessarily, no. There isn't always a linear correlation between injury and effects. Sometimes the most horrific looking accidents produce the least damage and a seemingly superficial trauma can have devastating effects. You're lucky your…"

She realised the surgeon was waiting for her to clarify her relationship to Harry.

"I don't know what we are," she whispered, through a barely stifled sob. Somehow, the realisation that she could have lost him forever without ever telling him what she felt was more upsetting than anything. "I never took my chance to find out."

She put a protective hand to Ruth's upper arm and guided her into a seat.

"Mr Pearce is very lucky. We call his spinal injury "incomplete"; in other words, when we wake him from his coma, we hope to find at least some responsiveness from the hips down.; the nerve damage wasn't total and the location of the bullet wound also means that his upper body is completely fine. If you're going to get shot in the back, there are many worse places than the L4 vertebrate."

Ruth looked at her, silently asking her to go on.

"I'm not saying it will be easy, or even possible. Some people wait months, years, lifetimes for just a slight improvement. Others are pole-vaulting, horse riding and salsa dancing in months, defying medical belief. There's no straight answer I can give you, but I'd say his chances are about the strongest they can be. I'd say if he wants to improve, anything's possible."

She nodded, solemnly. "When will you bring him round?"

"We'll give it a few days to a week. If his brain is kept inactive, it reduces the chance of more trauma occurring from swelling, and gives him more time to recover."

"Is there anything I, we, er…I want to make myself useful, but they won't let me see him. I'm not the next of kin."

Dr Brett smiled. "Normally, anyone other than immediate family would be asked to wait before visiting, but I think there are more than enough special circumstances surrounding what's going on to warrant other visitors. I understand that his daughter can't fly until tomorrow night so it will do him good to have people around him. There's too much going on right now, both for him and the staff monitoring him, to allow visits tonight, but all being well, you'll be able to see him in the morning."

"Can he…will he be able to hear me if I talk to him?"

"We'd like to think so. There are many reported cases of people rousing from comas with full knowledge of what's been going on around them, others truly have been out cold, and some just don't remember. We always think it's a help and a comfort, to both the patient and the visitor though."

"Thank you," Ruth smiled, for the first time in hours. "I appreciate that."

"If he's as fond as you as you are of him," she replied, knowingly, "then so will he."

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	4. Chapter 4

**Some more for you...**

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_He's just sleeping,_ she told herself. _It's the same as if he was asleep_.

He wasn't. It wasn't. Lying to herself had not made it any easier as she stepped into his small room for the first time. The pale, worn, hospital gown hung loosely around him, fed into by an assortment of wires which led to his chest, his arm, his hand. A small, clear tube ran to his nose, a strip of white tape holding it in place as it delivered the oxygen to compensate his shallow but steady breathing. Around them, machines beeped regularly, an orchestra of electric signals and sounds, monitoring his vital signs. She studied a green line on the screen in preference to forcing herself to study his pained, bruised face; she couldn't look at the patches of dark blue and purple which framed the white dressing, and the tinge of crimson blood which spotted at the surface of it, but neither did she want to look at the unnatural paleness of his cheeks.

Something about his posture seemed slightly unnatural, too, and she realised they had cushioned his back to relieve the pressure on his injury site, forcing his hips upwards and off the bed.

"Harry," she whispered, the sound cracking before it could be completely articulated. "It's me." She paused as if, somewhat ridiculously, he might reply. "I thought I'd come and sit with you a bit and chat, you know, about anything. England won the cricket, yesterday," she whispered. She let the beep of the machine answer her, and then continued. "Yes, it was a bit of a surprise to everyone actually. The Australian captain through a bit of a wobbly as he walked off, in fact."

An uneasy silence filled the room, broken only by the machine and the eventual sound of her dragging a chair to his bedside, perpendicular to the bed. "I, er, I don't really know what else to tell you that you've missed. It's, well, there's a lot to tell you, but none of it's very nice. I just…" The tears were falling as she spoke, her eyes reddened and puffy, her chin trembling with the effort of holding back a sob. "S-she jumped after she, after you were…she jumped, Harry." Her face contorted with grief and something dangerously close to anger before she pulled herself back together as best she could, and continued. "Such a cowardly thing to do, to take the easy way out and not suffer. Why should you have to suffer instead? Why should I have to watch you?"

She paused, again, for a moment. It was as if, if he could hear her, she was giving him time to mentally digest and answer the information.

"I hate her, Harry. I, I'm not used to…it's not an emotion I've felt in a very long time. I'm not a hateful person. I didn't mean to be so angry with you in the corridor. I, I think I was only mad at myself." She picked up his free hand, and loosely played with his fingers, bending them between her own as she continued to cry; her tears were silent, almost unnoticeable. Her other hand held him tight and stroked she her fingers over the back of his hand. "I think you probably knew that," she whispered. "I hope you did. I, I hope you know what everyone else seems to already know, too. I can't stand the way they're looking at me so pitifully, but I think they know I'm in love with you. They weren't _supposed_ to know. Nobody was. I used to wish _I_ didn't know, sometimes. Stupid, really, they're only a few little words, aren't they?" She gave a quiet, strangled sort of laugh. "The things we face everyday, and I still couldn't say them. Maybe they could have made us happy. I, I could have lost you without being certain that you knew. Y-you shouldn't have to die alone because someone's too scared to say they love you."

She sat for a few moments in companionable silence, feeling strangely empty. Until that point, her focus had been on being able to see him, to tell him, and now she had done that, she felt both lost and calmed. She didn't know what came next, or even if there was a next, but she was more at peace with the unknown now she'd made her confessions to him. She squeezed his fingers tight, suddenly overwhelmed by how important it was that he remembered everything she'd said; to know that, upon waking, he knew she loved him.

"Harry? Promise me you'll remember this conversation when you wake up? I- I'm going to be there when you wake up, and I want you to remember. Please." She looked at him and brought his hand to her mouth as she continued to speak. "I wish you'd answer me, Harry," she whispered. "You always have an answer."

She brushed her lips against his fingers repeatedly as she contemplated what to say. It was difficult to try and be positive in a one sided conversation like this. "Catherine is on her way Harry," she ventured, tentatively. "Please don't be cross," she added, suddenly worried that he would be angry they had contacted his family. She sneaked a glance at him, almost as if she expected him to be looking at her with disapproval in those expressive eyes of his, and was saddened but not surprised to see that he hadn't moved.

"Adam booked her a flight out for as soon as possible. Either tomorrow morning or tomorrow night. I wish you were awake to make decisions like this yourself, like whether your little girl should see you like this. But then I suppose she's not so little any more. She should probably make her own mind up about that."

"Ruth." A voice pulled her from her monologue.

She looked over her shoulder but made no attempt to remove herself from Harry's bedside. Adam sighed as he recognised the defiant set of her jaw. She knew he was going to try and make her go home, and although rationally she knew she should at least go home and change and see to the cats, she couldn't bear the thought of leaving him. "I'm fine here Adam."

"No you're not," he said, as gently as he could whilst still being firm. "You're exhausted. You were here all night and didn't sleep. Zaf is going to take you home for a bit. No arguments."

"But Harry needs ..."

"Company," he interrupted. "I know. I'll stay with him." He crossed over to the chair and stood beside her. "You're not the only one that cares for him Ruth."

She opened her mouth to say something and then thought the better of it. She gave Harry's hand a final squeeze before placing it gently back down on the bed, gave Adam a nod and a shaky smile, and promised she would be back soon. He had little doubt that she would be.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Bringing in a character we sadly don't get to see much of...**

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Catherine could hardly believe her eyes as she saw her father as he lay in his bed. She had been warned that it wasn't an easy sight to see but nothing had prepared her for how fragile he looked. She eased herself into the seat by the side of his bed and placed a tentative hand over his as it lay on top of the bed sheets.

"Daddy," she whispered, so quietly she almost didn't hear it herself. She swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat the second she had stepped into his hospital room, and willed her voice not to crack as she spoke. "Daddy, i-it's Catherine. I'm here now. I'm sorry it took me so long to get here, I've been so worried about you."

She'd seen him injured before - a few black eyes and cuts when she was younger, that he'd pretended looked much worse than they felt when she asked about them - but nothing like this. A memory of her kissing his swollen eye better surfaced and she leant forward and kissed his bruised face, softly.

This time, there was no soft smile on his face as she pulled back, no words of reassurance that it was no longer painful as a result, just the sound of her sobs as she cried for the man that had always protected her and shielded her from pain and suffering.

"I'm sorry, I know you'd want me to be strong," she choked out and used her free hand to wipe her face. "If you were awake you'd be giving me that look. The one you use when my emotions get the better of my intellect," she paused and released a shuddering breath. "I hated it but I wish you were looking at me like that now, Daddy."

"Catherine?" The young blond visibly jumped in her seat and automatically looked at her father, despite realising that the voice came from behind her and was most definitely feminine.

"It is Catherine, isn't it?" Ruth asked as she nervously inched her way into the room. This wasn't how she'd imagined meeting Harry's daughter for the first time. She swivelled in her chair and noticed the petite brunette, hovering by the doorway.

"Yes, it is. Sorry, do I know you?"

"Oh, um, sorry. No, no you don't. I'm Ruth," she introduced herself and edged closer to the bed. "I-I work with your father."

Catherine's brow furrowed as she tried to figure out what Ruth wanted. "Oh, right. Well, he obviously isn't going to be working anytime soon, so maybe you could just give him some space."

"No, I mean yes, of course, but I'm not here on behalf of the Service," she floundered, wondering why it was so difficult to explain to her that Harry meant as much to her as he did to his daughter. "We, um, we're close."

Catherine cocked her head, expecting, but not receiving, further explanation.

"Close!?"

"Um, yes, we're, well I certainly, um…"

"Are you his girlfriend?"

"No."

"Oh?"

"Well, not um…"

"Oh never mind!" she muttered, darkly, turning back around and intently focusing on her father, as much in a gesture of rudeness to Ruth than anything else. Catherine never had been good at being patient with people; she had inherited her father's quick temper and her mother's sharp tongue, and was using both to good effect as Ruth's incoherence began to annoy her. She felt sorry for whoever this woman was, but that didn't mean she had to like the fact that her own time with her dad was being intruded on by some sort of lover barely older than she was.

"I'll wait outside," Ruth tried to mask the hurt in her voice but Catherine noticed it all the same. "If you need anything, just shout."

"Thanks," the blonde muttered, not even looking in Ruth's direction any longer.

Ruth sat on one of the chairs that was outside Harry's room and tried her best not to fidget as she replayed the conversation with Catherine in her head. She tried to push her hurt aside and reasoned that she hadn't been exactly nice to Adam and Zaf since Harry had been shot. Her sole focus had been on seeing Harry and she hadn't really spared a thought for anyone else. She chalked her experience with Catherine up to the trauma of seeing Harry for the first time and hoped that they would get a chance to be properly acquainted later on.

--

In the days that followed, Catherine's attitude towards anyone from the service, particularly Ruth, had not improved. Catherine clearly mistrusted them all and she made no effort to hide her resentment that she was expected to share visiting rites with them. Everyone, especially Ruth, excused her behaviour as much as they could but her barbed comments and barely concealed anger every time one of them was near were getting harder to ignore. Things had taken a turn for the worse on the fourth day after Catherine overheard a tearful Ruth apologising to Harry for distracting him that fateful afternoon. The young blonde had left the room as quietly as she had entered it and brooded in the corridor until a red-eyed Ruth had emerged from his room.

"So, you're really here to ease your guilt," she accused, the second the door to his room had closed.

"Catherine? Wh-"

"I heard you apologising to him. You said it was your fault that he got shot. Is that true?"

"I-I, it's complicated," she whispered. She desperately wanted to deny the accusation but, in truth, she still felt responsible. She might not have pulled the trigger but she'd distracted him. His concern for her safety had made him lose focus and it had been enough for the unthinkable to happen.

"No, it's simple. Is it true?" Catherine demanded and the other woman sensed the infamous Pearce temper was about to make an appearance.

"Not in the way you think," Ruth replied, voice low, as she looked at Catherine imploringly. "If you give me a chance I'll explain everything to you."

The sincerity of Ruth's answer brought Catherine up short. She had been trying to get the full story of what had happened to her father since she had arrived but, despite having signed the Official Secrets Act, the intricacies of the situation had been glossed over rather quickly. This looked like her opportunity to find out the whole story and the journalist in her would not let this chance pass her by. "Go on then," she demanded, refusing to give an inch just because an explanation had been offered.

Ruth squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. "Not here."

Catherine was given no choice but to follow the older woman as she pushed past her and headed for the exit.

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**Please review, and you'll find out what Ruth's got to say for herself xx**


	6. Chapter 6

**Some more...**

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"Are you going to sit down?" Ruth asked. They were outside, having chosen a small bench, and Catherine's determination to stand was not only unnerving the older brunette, but was forcing her to squint into the sunshine in order to look at her.

"No," came the curt reply.

Ruth bit her tongue, quite literally, to stop from voicing the thoughts which threatened to spill out about the blonde's attitude. Almost a week's worth of continued bitchiness was wearing her temper thin and, after the olive branch Ruth had now extended in the form of their conversation, the least she expected in return was a little co-operation.

"Well, as you already know…"

"Why do people keep saying that?" Catherine interrupted. "'As you already know' – well I already know it, don't I; I'm not so blonde as I need it repeating."

Ruth stood, suddenly and without warning. Even drawn up to her full height, she was considerably shorter than her younger companion, but it didn't stop her from squaring her shoulders and staring her down in preparation for the outburst she knew was about to spill from her lips. "You don't deserve this, you know. The attitude you've been sporting, it's no wonder no one has bothered to sit you down for to tell you what happened. In fact, it's a wonder they've not sat you down for a _real_ talking to yet. Harry's daughter or not, it doesn't give you a right to trample over our feelings but we're all too nice to bloody say anything."

"Fine, don't bother."

"I'm bothering for his sake, not for my own. He loves you, and that's enough for me to put up with this crap, because I love him."

"You do?"

"If you'd listened, you'd know."

"I thought you were…" She couldn't bring herself to say _shagging_ where her father was concerned, but she didn't need to for it to be obvious it was where the sentence had been heading.

"No."

Catherine noticed the woman's eyes flash between hurt and anger at the accusation, and something else she thought she recognised as regret. The young woman's face arranged itself into a rightly sorry expression and she drew her cheeks inwards and arched her eyebrows as she realigned things in her mind. "Sorry."

"Why are we such a threat, Catherine? We're not here to fight for his affection. None of us are."

"Maybe I'm not sure what affection is there to fight over; at least right now I get to be his little girl, even if he's not awake to know."

"You know that's not true. I know he told you how proud he was of you. You aren't the injured party here, and neither am I; your father is. You need to let go of the victim status."

"He won't want me here when we wakes up. I know what he's like. He'll shut me out as if somehow he's protecting me, but he's protecting himself too."

"Then you're as bad as each other."

For once, Catherine had no reply, and Ruth took advantage of the silence and pressed on. "I don't want to fight with you Catherine, things are bad enough right now without us at each other's throats."

Catherine gave a small nod in Ruth's direction. "Will you tell me what happened?" she shuffled herself over to the bench, a signal she was backing down, and perched on the edge as she looked up at Ruth. "Please, Ruth."

"Ok." She took a seat beside Catherine and stared across the hospital grounds for a moment or two in order to gather her thoughts. "It all started when an ex-Spook, called Angela Wells, paid me a visit at home one evening. We knew each other through my step-brother, Peter; they were an item until he killed himself."

"Riiiight," Catherine muttered, only to be silenced when Ruth shot her a withering look. "Sorry. I'm listening."

"Peter had been obsessed with Princess Diana and was convinced that MI5 had assassinated her. In the end, his obsession led him to take his own life and Angela was determined to prove his theory right. She came to me with a document which detailed a committee; she believed they'd been discussing ways in which to kill Diana. Your father sat on that committee and she wanted me to find more proof to link him to the committee..."

She found that the whole story came tumbling out a lot easier than she had expected it to, from the accusation which had been traded on the Grid, to the rather more personal lines of attack she had resorted to using to talk Angela down. Her voice wobbled as she described the moment in which Harry was shot but she managed to control her emotions sufficiently well, considering what she was saying, and to whom. When she had finished she sat quietly and waited for the backlash to start from Catherine, but it never came.

"You really do love him, don't you?" Catherine had been shocked at herself for reacting quite so compassionately to a woman who, a few moments ago, she couldn't tolerate, but suddenly she understood, with clarity, that Ruth wasn't looking after either her own or the Service's interests, only Harry's. She wasn't sure which proved it more; the explanation of how she had sat with Harry in those first few hours of his coma, whispering her inner thoughts, or the fact that – as she had rightly said – she was here now, putting up with _her_ for _him_.

Ruth turned her head and met her gaze evenly. "Yes, I do."

"I think you need to tell him that when he wakes up," she said, quietly, then stood and walked away.

Ruth knew that it was Catherine's way of apologising for her attitude towards her, and the others, and she was happy to accept it as such; it seemed to be a Pearce trait to offer reconciliation in a round about way, and she was strangely touched by it. A tentative peace had been reached; how long it would last she didn't know, but it was enough for now. Harry would be awake in less than 48 hours and Ruth was determined to protect him from witnessing any hostility between them. She knew he was going to need them both, more now than ever before, and only hoped that his innate stubbornness didn't lead to him pushing away the people that cared about him the most.

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**Coming up, Harry awakes!**

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	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for sticking with us folks...we know this is a heavier read, and less fluff, but it will get cuter too :)**

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The two women took turns next to his bedside, a delicate peace brokered and light pleasantries exchanged as they changed vigil at his side. He would wake today, the nurses had promised; his sedation had been lifted and he was expected to be conscious before evening. Both knew how desperate the other was to be the one there, at that moment, and both knew it couldn't possibly match the desperation with which _they_ wanted to be there more, in spite of how selfish that was.

"Keep squeezing his hand and talking to him like you have been," Dr Brett announced as she came to check on him. "I've seen the way you touch him to let him know you're there. It he's aware of his environment, he might come round all the quicker."

Ruth smiled her thanks and limply played with Harry's fingers in a manner which was so familiar to her now. She could barely hold them still for her own trembling; she had spent each alternate hour with him like this, shaking with anticipation and fear of what would be there when he opened his eyes.

She had been playing with his hands for a further twenty minutes, humming quiet nonsense songs to him and whispering how badly she wanted him to wake when she felt it; the slightest movement of his hand in hers. His fingers twitched in response to hers and curled a little around her fingers.

"Harry. Harry?"

She squeezed his hand a little harder and watched as, this time, his whole face flickered in response, the muscles around his eyes fluttering as he tried and failed to open them.

This was it, she was convinced. She pressed the buzzer at the side of the bed, suddenly frightened of being alone and solely responsible on this momentous occasion, and a nurse came rushing in.

"He's coming round," Ruth sighed, with a giddy smile. She didn't even realise she was crying as she spoke.

"Good." The nurse squeezed her arm. "Just let him bring himself out of it, but encourage him to take it slowly; let him keep the tube in and his mask on for now - this is the most his body has done in a long time; it'll be glad of a bit of oxygen."

Ruth nodded and turned her attention back to Harry, letting out a deeply caught sob as she realised that in the short time she'd stopped watching him, his eyes had flickered open and were now blinking into focus on her.

He tried to move his arm, but she could tell from his efforts how stiff and heavy it must have felt, despite the daily exercise of it by his nurses. She also knew exactly what he was trying to do, and placed her hands back down on top of his. "Leave it on. Don't talk. I'm here. You're…you're awake," she finished feebly, in place of being able to tell him he was fine.

He gave a small smile, which seemed to take more effort than was reasonable to expect of a man so weak, and turned his head pointedly towards the box of tissues he could see from the corner of his eye, and then looked back at her with sadness.

"Sorry," she muttered, scrubbing her one hand beneath her eyes and another under her nose as she sniffed loudly. "What a bloody state to wake up to."

He rolled his eyes in place of being able to tell her that was nonsense, and then rearranged his expression back to something so serious, so intense as he looked at her, that she was at a loss as to what to say.

"Catherine is here," she said, eventually, and noted a flash of something in his eyes. "She wants to see you Harry." She watched as he slowly, but determinedly, shook his head from side to side. She reached out and covered his hand with hers again and gave it a small squeeze, "She _needs_ to see you awake, Harry. It's as much for her as it is for you; she needs to see for herself that her father is conscious again. That there is hope..." she trailed off but her eyes were pleading as she kept her gaze on his and, eventually, he gave her a small nod of capitulation.

She moved to stand so that she could go and get Catherine only to feel his fingers trying to grip onto her hand. He tried to tell her not to go yet but all that come out was a low, slightly slurred, string of consonants.

"Ssssh, don't try and talk yet. Save your energy," she whispered, but he was determined to try again.

"My legs," he mumbled.

She drew her lips in between her teeth and tried to stop from crying. She had known, she had been warned, that there could be damage, but it had not occurred to her that he might ask questions, nor that she might be the one who was left to answer them.

"Can you feel them?" she whispered, her voice wobbling. She willed him with all her might to say _yes_ and that they just ached, or something ridiculously trivial, but she could tell from the expression on his face that he was not about to say that.

He shook is head and told her, as best he could, that he couldn't really feel anything but a deadened tingling in his upper legs. His face was crushed and contorted with worry, and she knew that her own un-composed expression would not be helping matters.

"Oh Harry," she sighed in the quietest of voices. "I can't…I don't…I don't know Harry," she shrugged, her own face distraught. "Dr Brett said she would speak to you when you came round. I…I think it was the shot."

She watched as he gave a small nod and tried to mask his fear. Her heart ached for him and her anger at Angela Wells bubbled dangerously close to the surface as she squeezed his hand tighter than was necessary.

She refused to utter false promises or platitudes; he deserved better than that. Instead, she looked him square in the eye and gazed back at him with the same intensity he had looked at her earlier. Not a word was spoken to acknowledge it but he knew, without a doubt, that she would support him through whatever the future held.

"I'll ask the Doctor to come and talk to us after Catherine has been, or tomorrow at the latest." Her use of the word 'us' was not lost on him. Nor was the look in her eyes which warned him not to argue the point.

--

Harry tried to compose himself as much as he possibly could before Catherine appeared. He was still confused about most things but he knew that he didn't want his daughter sat by his bedside for longer than was necessary. It wasn't that he didn't want to see her; he did. Just not in this state.

"Hi, Daddy," Catherine whispered as she slipped into the chair beside her father and offered him a weak smile. He gave her a small smile from behind his oxygen mask and watched as she fidgeted in her seat. She looked as unsure and uncomfortable about this as he felt. "I, uh, I know you can't really talk right now and I promised that I wouldn't tire you out so I won't stay too long."

Harry nodded his understanding and moved his fingers slightly until she covered his hand with hers. The sound of their steady breathing and the whirr of the machinery was all that could be heard for what seemed like an endless few minutes. Now he was finally awake, Catherine didn't know what to say to him. There was so much in her head and her heart that should be articulated but, from the moment their eyes had met, they had slipped back into the roles they had always occupied; proud father and distant daughter.

When she could take the silence no more, she unthreaded her hand and perched on the edge of her seat, ready to leave. "Get some rest, Dad," she leaned over and kissed his cheek, softly, as she stood up. "I'll come back tomorrow."

She had half expected the simple shake of his head that followed her words, but it didn't mean that it hurt any less. "I'm your _family_," she snapped, the hurt and anger getting the better of her. It didn't help that he was unable to speak properly; the slur of words he tried to formulate behind the mask were unintelligible, but there was no mistaking the look in his eyes. He was resolute, and no matter how much she wanted to stamp her feet and demand to see him, they both knew she wouldn't.

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	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the delay...a certain pea took a holiday! :P**

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"Is s-sh-she outside?" he slurred and stuttered, a little, as Ruth arrived for her morning visit the next day. When Ruth had asked Dr Brett last night about talking to Harry, she'd also mentioned his problem, and the professional had attributed the slight impediment to the small brain trauma and had assured it would improve. It was still disconcerting to hear, though, and Ruth could tell just from the look on Harry's face that it frustrated him beyond belief to have such trouble articulating himself. Still, it didn't stop her from being angry with him when she grasped what he meant by his question.

"Catherine? No," she muttered, tersely, "and you needn't look relieved about that either. I spent the other day reassuring her you wouldn't push her away when you woke up, and yet you've done just that. You should have seen her yesterday when she left your room, Harry."

"I do-don't want h-h- to s-see me like that."

"She's not a little girl anymore," she retorted. "And she hates it. She hates that you won't let her know anything. I know she hates it because I hated it when it was my father trying to protect me. I wanted to know."

Harry merely stared back, his eyes pleading with her not to argue, hers returning the gaze with the threat that she _would_ keep pushing until he saw sense.

"She knows what happened. She's seen you at your worst. What else are you protecting her from?"

He mumbled a 'not now, I'm tired,' and she sighed and half apologised.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I know you're tired but I'm bloody tired too, sitting here night and day, every minute, waiting for you to open your eyes, not sleeping because I was worrying. But just because you're tired doesn't give the prerogative to bugger things up with your daughter again."

He smiled, in spite of himself, and the oxygen mask twitched as his cheeks moved; there was always something about her impassioned speeches which he couldn't resist. She was right; he was being a selfish bastard, but the only way he had ever known to protect Catherine, and to protect their fragile relationship, was to keep things at a distance, and that was going to be hard to change. He nodded, very slowly, at her and she smiled, equally slowly, in return as their eyes held one another.

"Sorry for starting off at you like that," she whispered.

He nodded again, and she knew it was mainly because it bothered him too much to hear a seemingly alien voice leave his lips.

"I…I suppose I should tell you what happened. Everyone else knows," she laughed, lightly. "Better hear it from me than the doctor," she whispered, looking at her watch. She anticipated she had half an hour with him before Dr Brett was due, and she sensed it would be a long visit, too. So far, only preliminary visits had been made, but she was aware there would be some grave implications to discuss this morning.

He nodded, and also gave a small sort of laugh, which hurt his dry throat. He had been torn between hoping she would raise that point, and wanting to desperately ask her why she'd chosen to sit by his bedside every waking minute of her day.

Despite her best efforts, her voice cracked less than a minute into retelling him the whole sorry saga of events which led up to him being shot at. It had been hard talking to him about it when he was unconscious and it was even harder now, looking into his deep, brown, eyes as she told him she'd watched it all like it was in slow motion; how the first shot had come out of nowhere and that in the ensuing chaos he had stood his ground and tried to stare his assassin down.

"I was still inside when it started but for some reason I walked outside," she paused and took a deep breath before averting her eyes and lowering her voice to a whisper, "I think I was coming to protect you." She dared a glance at him and the look on his face unnerved her enough to make her rush on. "It was stupid. It's not like I could have done anything, and then when I was on the steps there was another crack of gunfire and a woman screamed and Adam was shouting to get you inside but all I could see was you standing there, perfectly still, like you were just waiting for something to happen. A-and then it did. I happened."

She didn't want to cry but couldn't stop the tears from falling, even though she knew she wasn't the one that had anything to cry about.

"Y-y-you c-called my n-name," he stammered and her eyes snapped to his. The words sounded like an accusation to her guilt ridden mind but his eyes were warm as he looked at her.

"Yes," she whispered, almost as if the quieter she said it the less attention it would draw. "Do you remember anything else?"

He thought for a moment and then shook his head in frustration. "S'all hazy."

"Shall I... do you want me to carry on?" She half hoped that he would say no but knew that was selfish of her. He deserved to know the truth and she should be the one to tell him. He nodded, slowly, and she picked up her narrative again. "You turned round, after I shouted you, and I think you were trying to tell me to get back inside, but it was too late. I'd distracted you and she fired again and hit you in the back. So cowardly of her and so fucking stupid of me, distracting you like that. I don't know what I was thinking, I've turned it over again and again in my mind but I still don't know what the hell I thought I was doing!"

Her anger and self-loathing were palpable and Harry hated to see her like that. He might not have known all of the facts surrounding his injuries but he did know that Ruth wasn't to blame. She hadn't been the one shooting at him, she hadn't pulled the trigger, that had been someone else entirely and he took no small amount of comfort from the fact that she had admitted to wanting to protect him.

He looked at her, suddenly, almost alarmed and she visible blanched at his reaction.

"No, er," he faltered as he searched for words to calm her down, before giving up and concentrating on trying to tell her what had caused his sudden response. "You lay with me."

"Sorry!?" She was that far thrown that he hadn't been looking at her in that startled way because of what she'd done, that it was all she could think of to say.

"Outs- outs-…on the floor."

"You remember?"

"Juss' that. Juss' came ba-ck."

She nodded, slowly. "Yes, I did," she whispered. "Do you…there's nothing else…that you remember?"

He shook his head and asked her what else there was to know, and she chewed her lip in silence for a long minute. There were several things he needed to know, and several things she wanted him to know, but none of them would make for an easy conversation.

In terms of what he was expecting her to tell him, she could honestly say that there wasn't much left to say; the doctor would be along shortly to explain the technicalities of the aftermath, but her retelling of the incident was all but over. In terms of what she had promised she would tell him if he ever woke up, however, well…

"Um." She stood up and shook her head, but was saved from the embarrassment of fleeing by the opening of the door.

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	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry it's taken ages to update - when we started to do a few at once, we had plenty of spare time but now we're busy, busy, busy :S**

**Still, we hope you enjoy it all the same :) Although this one gets technical (but the technical stuff has to come before the fluff...which means fluff soon!)  
**

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"Mr Pearce. Ruth."

"Dr Brett," Ruth smiled, shakily. "Come in."

The doctor obliged and positioned herself at Harry's bedside.

"How're you doing today?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Think tha' depends."

She gave a small chuckle at the fact that his demeanour was exactly as Ruth had described. "Well, I can tell you what we already know, but first I'd like to run a few tests, and you tell me what you can and can't feel, and then we'll see what you can and can't do. I understand you're having a little trouble with your speech, but that seems to be from a small, diminishing bruise to the brain; I'd be surprised if it lasts the week. If it does, we'll address it properly. Now, if you don't mind, Mr Pearce, I want to take back these covers and take a look at your legs."

He managed to bring a smile to his face, despite the circumstances, and cheekily stuttered that it was the best offer he'd had in a while.

"You didn't warn me he was cheeky," Dr Brett muttered, rolling her eyes good naturedly at Ruth.

"Insufferably so."

"Right, Harry, if you can close your eyes, I want you to tell me when and whereabouts I'm touching you, please."

He nodded, and did as he was asked, but it was several minutes before he next spoke.

"Now?" His voice seemed highly uncertain.

"Yes. Where?"

He thought about it for what seemed like an unreasonably long time to Ruth, who was watching with a grimace on her face.

"Can't tell 'xactly. S-s-somewhere at the top."

"Can you feel it properly? If I press harder, does it help?"

He shook his head.

"When he came around, he described it like it was numb. Not as if there was absolutely nothing, I don't think, but…deadened." Ruth looked at Harry to make sure she was right, and he nodded.

Dr Brett nodded in understanding. "Do you think you might be able to move your legs, Harry? If I asked you to wiggle your toes, for example."

A look of intense concentration passed his face for several seconds as he willed his body to respond, and the contortion as he screwed his features up looked almost painful. A twitch, of some kind, pulled his knee a little, and Dr Brett asked him to repeat it.

"Can't," he muttered, eventually, and his voice seemed so much wearier than before. "Jus' tell me. Truth."

Dr Brett looked at Harry, then at Ruth, and the brunette's responding glare was enough to tell her than her patient meant business, and there was no point skirting any of the issue.

"Ok, Harry, do you want the technical version?"

He nodded.

"Here's what I think. Based on what we know from your scans, and from when we operated, the bullet didn't completely sever the nerve. You were very lucky in that respect. From what I've just seen, from the intense feeling of your limbs being numb, and the vague but incorrect response from your muscles when you try to move, I would suggest you have what's known as Posterior Cord Syndrome."

Harry nodded again.

"You were hit," she continued, whilst scribbling furiously on her notepad, "here." She turned around the pad to reveal a sketch of the spine and the rest of the skeleton. It's called the L4 vertebrate. The nerves from here downwards are responsible for the thighs down to the toes. This one here," she said, pointing to the next vertebrate up, "controls the hips and, to some extent, the thighs too, which means you should be unaffected from there upwards."

A slight relief crossed his face, but it was very little compared to the reluctant despair which was barely concealed.

"The reason there is a vague sensation left comes from the injury being known as incomplete. Sensation can return in time because the nerve cell body is still intact, only the "sending" or "receiving" fibres have to regrow. I say 'only', but it's not a quick process; it's ridiculously slow by our bodies' normal standards of healing, but it is possible. Medically, the sensations you've lost are known as proprioception or epicritic sensations. What that means is, although it may be absolutely minimal right now, you _can_ move and feel a bit, but you lack any co-ordination or spatial awareness of where your legs are and what they're doing, and you can't differentiate between the intensity of stimuli. That's why I asked if you could feel any difference when I pressed harder against your thigh. It's a classic sign of incomplete damage."

"Wha'sit mean for me?"

"It means that, for now, you're in a wheelchair. It means that, for the foreseeable future, you're in a wheelchair. I can't promise you how long that will last; there is nothing you or I can do to speed up your body's healing time. As and when the nerve fibres regrow, and you regain sensation, we can look at physiotherapy aimed at addressing your coordination which, although will return itself, will require a sort of 're-education' of your brain, and building up your strength and balance again."

He nodded and swore, and looked up to find Ruth silently crying for him across the room.

"I should leave you two to talk," the doctor whispered. "Feel free to ask me any questions now if you want, but I know you'll need a little time to come to terms with it."

Harry was the first to speak and thanked the doctor for her time and her candour. When they were finally alone again he switched his attention back to Ruth. He could clearly see the tear tracks down her face and she made no attempt to hide them as he watched her.

"Don't c-cry," he stuttered, sounding far gruffer than he intended, and looking between her and the box of tissues on his nightstand.

She crossed the room and helped herself to a tissue, dabbing her eyes briefly, before twisting it around her fingers. "I'm so sorry, Harry," she managed to choke out before dissolving into tears again. She hated that she was the one crying and being comforted, when, in reality, it should be the other way round.

"S'ok," he muttered and she stared at him in disbelief.

"Ok? How can it be ok? You might never walk again, Harry. That's not bloody alright!"

"Do- don't get all u-upset. S'done. S'it now," he said, evenly, and she knew what he was doing. He was erecting his defences, shutting her, and everyone, else out, internalising his pain and emotions just like he always did.

"Don't do that!" she demanded, angrily, making him look at her oddly.

"Do what?"

"Pretend that you can cope with this on your own. Don't you dare do that, Harry. It's not fair."

"On who?"

"You, me, Catherine, the nurses and doctors, on everyone that wants to help you get through this. It's going to be really tough Harry, you heard what the doctor said, it'll be a long road to recovery and you can't do that by yourself." She lowered her voice and pleaded with him, "Please let me, us, help you."

"W-why do you care s-so much?"

The question caught her off guard and she faltered for a moment, wondering if this was how she wanted him to find out. His expectant stare left her with no other option and, in a fleeting moment she was aware of the irony of her legs shaking so much that she could feel there every tremble throughout her whole body. "Because I love you, Harry."

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